


Goodbye

by missbeizy



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Cause you know how it is after a while.  You have to, man, if you're paying attention and if you've got a pulse, which I do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye

He flies in and I've got voices humming in my ear. Got Elijah and Viggo and the lot heaping this advice that's gotta be bullshit. Patch it up, you're so good for each other, you've both been miserable. You want a score to go along with that monologue, brother? Like I've got a handle on it, even after all this time. Like it stays together, like it congeals at all. Fucking hell if it were that easy. 

'Cause you know how it is after a while. You have to, man, if you're paying attention and if you've got a pulse, which I do. 

So we get into the bar round ten after picking him up, and it's fine. The face of everything is smooth and cheery, shiny happy people if you will, and we've managed to avoid a one-on-one. I keep the band guys between us, or Viggo if need be, and I know he knows I'm doing it intentionally. Doesn't matter. Neither of us will just spit it out that we're scared to death of each other, of what happens when we lock eyes and the world spins like a twisted horror flick moment around us. And there's no end to the mix of _fuck off_ and _why the hell'd we get here_ , Billy and I guess that's the way this sort of shit goes down.

We've got the studio for six hours, Viggo's saying, and I'm glad, 'cause I was just about to order me and Billy's drinks, and hell, I was supposed to forget that habit. Supposed to forget a lot of shit. Like the way the grungy bar light brings out the brighter specks in his eyes, like the way his shoulders go when he's settling in with a drink. Yeah, I think. It's gonna play out like all those other times. I don't have the will to deny its predictability. That'd make a great lyric.

He reaches for a napkin and our wrists brush. I jerk back like it hurts and his eyes tick up to mine. It's no contest really, his stare or mine. It's always been his. So I hand him the bloody napkin and say something rude about a leather-clad bloke at the bar to Travis who's sitting next to me. Laughter shivers through the table. Yeah, Dom's still got it. Sometimes Dom wishes he didn't, I think.

*

The band's got a room at the hotel on Viggo's tab, so we go on over there with them rather than back to Elijah's place. It'd be a bit of a drive and whatever we do at the hotel is Viggo's problem. With visions of room service and mini-bars dancing in our heads we crash, and the hobbits end up squished to one corner of the room, as per usual.

Elijah spots me a favor, keeping Billy talking about Glasgow and the playhouse and the leggy thing with tits that keeps him warm at night. Dunno how Elijah can keep a straight face. Sure, Billy's been seeing the bird for a long time, but the closer they get to making things legal, the closer our trio gets to disaster. It's funny; that worries me more than what Billy and me got going between us. I guess it's 'cause I'm used to that by now.

Bit later Rumi comes over and says Viggo got Billy his own room, says the hobbits can use it to hang out by themselves and catch up if they want. One look at Viggo and I know exactly what use he wants me to put that room to. And yeah, it's been swimming around my head for hours. I wait for Elijah to wave it off, _we'll talk on the way to the studio tomorrow_ , he says, and gets up without another word and leaves us two sitting there like kids that have had a tiff and need a time-out. 

Billy tips his beer, swallows, and through the rush of noise and smell of sweat and pot in the room I feel the tips of his fingers circle my knee. Light squeeze at the end and by then my heart's getting cozy with my tonsils. There's nothing noble about giving in. But then there's nothing noble about a clean record, either. What the fuck does it matter, anyway? He'll be gone the second the recording's through and that's that. Done and done.

Doing the right thing doesn't apply to real people, I think.

*

"Shut up," I say, right against his tongue as it pushes into my mouth. We've played the game a dozen times. The chatty nervous build-up, the romantic build-up, the _fuck me now you wanker_ build-up. I'm sick of all of it. I want bits and pieces of everything. I want what I bloody well fucking want. He never gives it; just a taste of it, just enough to get me drooling before having me how he wants. But I guess a part of me wants that, too, because I let him.

"Don't," he says back, grabbing my hands from the waistband of his trousers, and there's something funny in his eyes. Something that makes me want to stand still and plug my ears and hum real loud to cover the deafening roar in my head. "Let me."

Rest of the evening is like that, _don't_ , and then _let me_ and, for some reason we'll never discuss, he makes love to me instead of fucking me, his mouth slow and his body attentive. I guess it was his way of saying hello and goodbye at the same time. 'Cause I lie there afterwards, tangled round his body, and I feel the leaving he hasn't even done yet.

*

I only find out he's playing bass on my song a half-hour before I'm to slide on the headphones and give it a go. Doesn't bother me much that he's going to hear the words written about him, really. More than anything I worry that him being there will fuck it up. I have a very specific way I want to do it.

So he sits plucking at his bass and doesn't look at me. He hasn't looked at me all morning, hasn't even acknowledged me since I crawled out of his bed at six. He knows only natural disaster could get me up at that time, so he's got it sorted that I left because my mind was going too fast to stay asleep. Guilt's what it is, on some level, I guess, but I don't know, because I never ask.

The paper with the lyrics scribbled on them shakes in my hands as we settle in to start. Half the band's got cigarettes or cigars, so there's a layer of smoke fogging up the room, which would really piss me off if I wasn't so preoccupied. Couple'a guys from the band with guitars, Billy with his bass, Elijah, Viggo, Henry, and Travis all manning what's left of the instruments. A bit of ash from Elijah's cigarette falls, Henry laughs at something Viggo says, one of the guitar guys leans over and checks out Billy's bass. It's like being in a room where every little bit matters. It slows down like that, all around me, hurting me, and I can feel the music even before it starts.

Piano, couple plucked guitar strings, whiney-painful. I close my eyes. If I kept 'em open they'd be straight at Billy. Buzz, buzz, growl goes the beat of base. Tap of drumsticks behind me and I start on cue.

_You said you needed some space / I'll give you space_

Something goes over Billy's face. The end of a tense moment, maybe, but so fast that I barely catch it. The smoke curls its way around us. The colors in the room are dark browns and greens and the eerie edge of the tune is unavoidable.

_Yeah, right / Space_

He props a foot up on the stool in front of him, fingers bent typically over the strings, eyes on the instrument. So I say to hell with ignoring it, and I look straight at him as I go on, as I watch the smoke and light and music filter through his thin hair.

_I'm coming for you / I'm the shadow in the corner of the room_

His eyes trickle along the landscape of the room, scanning the heads of the guys that sit outside handling the equipment, falling over each of us as we're strapped in to our instruments or headphones or chairs. The mic blocks the bottom half of my face, but my eyes are clear over it, and I feel him like he's there in front of me, like his warm breath is stirring my eyelashes as the soft _yeah_ and the word _space_ falls from my lips again and again.

_I'm the reason you feel sick in the morning / I'm the panic attack at the end of the day_

His nostrils flare. His chest rises and falls off beat. By the time he lets his eyes meet mine, we're both gone. The backbone of the music hits its stride, doesn't need the players, is its own entity all there in the open and doing its own thing, just dragging us along for the ride. A stronger plume of cigar smoke falls across his face. I go numb.

_You needed some space, huh? / I loved you_

The bass doesn't do much here. Just hit a quick two-three beat every now and again. He isn't looking at the music. I don't think he cares. Our eye contact adopts a physical presence, drawing the attention of everyone in the tiny studio. I feel all the strings of anger and love I've ever had for him tie me up in knots. I feel defeated; I feel resigned. I could do murder or nothing. I don't know what's appropriate anymore.

_Now you're gone / And I see you everywhere_

A softness I don't want crawls into that line, breaking my concentration. It's a lucky thing I don't have any more words, 'cause if I did, there'd be a problem. So I close my eyes, feel him fall away, and it hurts like a yank against my skin, and the rest of the quiet song falls from my throat thoughtlessly. 

When it's over, everybody's quiet. No words from the guys outside, no "let's go again" from the boss man, no nothing. Billy shrugs off his bass and as subtly as he can, leaves the studio. I push off the headphones and fall into the nearest chair. Elijah's hand comes down on my shoulder and all the breath leaves my lungs.

*

His plane takes off without circumstance the following afternoon and it's no surprise. I find myself not caring; it went the way I figured. And I guess it goes the way I want it to, so I take what I get. Maybe one day he'll stay and we'll actually talk. Maybe the bird'll sleep with the milkman on him and he'll come crying.

Hell, I've got life going, so there's that, and that life has learned to function without his shoulder to lean on. We'll go round next time, and perhaps we'll hit a snag then. Or maybe I'll work up the nerve to go after him the way I know I should. 

Maybe I'll write another fucking song.


End file.
